


Lest We Forget

by vaticancame0s



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Military AU, Pre-slash if you look really really hard, Remembrance Day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaticancame0s/pseuds/vaticancame0s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is paying his respects when he ought not to be. Greg finds him. "Would you care to explain why you're not in the church with the rest of your squadron?"</p>
<p>  "With all due respect, sir, I'd rather spend my two minutes of silence with someone I actually care about than in there, surrounded by people who dislike me, praying to a god I don't believe in."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lest We Forget

**Author's Note:**

> I know I know it's another angsty fic involving a graveyard. I wrote this because I wanted to show my respect for everyone who died fighting for my country. (Yes, I do that by writing fic. It's one of the few productive things I can do nowadays. Don't knock it.)  
> If enough people like it, I might do a prequel do it or something.
> 
> Time shall not weary them, nor the years condemn, and at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.

The thin woollen dress trousers do little to protect Flight Lieutenant Lestrade from the chill November air. Frost crunches under his feet as he walks between the rows of gravestones, poppy wreaths laid out on each one. For as far as the eye can see this pattern continues, row upon row of white and red, until the line of trees running round the perimeter of the field stops them abruptly. Lestrade casts his eye over the scene, quiet and undisturbed but for a flash of blue by one of the headstones. His eyes narrow. The whole squadron is supposed to be in the church adjacent to the graveyard, no exceptions. He begins to cut across the lines, stopping when he's a few metres away, close enough to recognise the culprit. Surprised, he raises his eyebrows. It's Holmes. He never would have guessed - though the auburn hair brutally combed back underneath the beret is enough of a clue, he's pretty sure the man doesn't have feelings.

  Yet there he is, knelt down in front of a headstone with one hand resting on it, his shoulders shaking in silent grief. The frost underneath him has melted yet he seems oblivious to the just-above-freezing water seeping through his trouser legs. His body's positioned in such a way that the Flight Lieutenant can't read the name on the headstone, but he assumes it's someone the man knew well. His best friend, perhaps - if Holmes even has any friends, as cold and unfeeling as he seems to be. Lestrade takes another faltering step towards him, close enough to hear a murmured 'sorry' from the junior officer. For a moment, Lestrade thinks Holmes has heard him, but he soon realises it was actually directed towards the gravestone.

  Orders may be orders, but the older man doesn't want to disturb the scene before him. According to his superiors, he should give hell to anyone skipping out on the mandatory church service, but he doesn't believe that Holmes is doing this to be disrespectful. Lestrade sighs and then clears his throat, loud enough for the other man to hear. Mycroft freezes and glances over his shoulder. As he hastily scrambles up and stands to attention, a blush creeps its way across his face. "Would you care to explain why you're not in the church with the rest of your squadron?"

  "With all due respect, sir, I'd rather spend my two minutes of silence with someone I actually care about than in there, surrounded by people who dislike me, praying to a god I don't believe in."

  "Just because you don't fancy it doesn't mean you can just skip out, Holmes."

  "I know, sir. My apologies. I didn't think anyone would miss me." There's a hint of sarcasm to his voice, and there's something akin to condescension in the way he looks at Greg.

  "Thinking you wouldn't get caught doesn't give you an excuse to do something." Holmes keeps his gaze locked on Lestrade, silent. Uncomfortable, he pitches his voice lower, on the off-chance there's anyone listening. "Look, I get it. Really. But I got ordered to come and find anyone who was skipping out. There's usually always one."

  "Should we go back, then?" The younger man asks, and there's defeat in his tone, a silent sigh.

  "There's no point, really. It's nearly over. Just rejoin the parade as they leave, no-one will notice." And for the first time in... well, ever, Greg thinks, Mycroft smiles.

  "Thank you, sir," he says quietly.

  "Who is it?" Greg gestures to the gravestone, Mycroft's body still in his line of sight so he can't read the name - almost as if he's protecting whoever lies there. "If you don't mind me asking, that is-" he's cut off by the sound of a church bell.

_One._ Though he hasn't been fallen out, the younger man turns away towards the gravestone.

_Two._ The second peal of the bell startles some birds roosting in a nearby tree, and Lestrade watches as they take to the sky.

_Three._ A car drives through a glistening puddle, throwing up spray as it whooshes past.

_Four._ Holmes bows his head, eyes closed, and touches his hand to the headstone again.

_Five._ Lestrade’s feet shift uncomfortably on the grass and he kicks himself internally after a frosted leaf makes a loud _crack_ under his parade shoe.

_Six._ Wind rustles the few leaves that are left on the trees and brings most of them to the ground – they land soundlessly.

_Seven._ Staring intently at the earth, Greg tries to push away the memories that are floating, unbidden, to the surface of his mind.

_Eight._ Now is not the time.

_Nine._ But if now is not the time, then when is?

_Ten._ All sounds are but a whisper, now – the occasional gust of wind, the sound of the two of them breathing, the silence so near all-encompassing that Lestrade can almost hear himself blinking.

_Eleven._ They bring themselves to attention, Greg watching Mycroft, Mycroft watching the gravestone. All is silent. In the two minutes that follow, they barely dare to breathe. The silence that hangs in the air is cloying, working its way into their veins, a melancholy reminder that lodges itself deep in their chests of the men that died to protect their country.

  The slightly less prevalent reminder that one day, those men could be them.

  “Lest we forget,” murmurs Lestrade, and Mycroft does the same. “We should start heading back. They’ll be out in a minute.” Mycroft nods.

  “Recquiescat in pace,” he mumbles, glancing at the gravestone one last time. Greg finds it touching, in a strange sort of way. He shouldn’t have expected anything else from Mycroft Holmes. The man’s probably got a degree in Latin, the way his CV looked last time Greg saw it. As they go to leave, he can’t help glancing at the name on the gravestone.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and he’s aware how inadequate it must sound, but there isn’t any more consolation he can offer. “Was it recent?”

  “Comparatively, yes. In four days, it will be ten months since he... since it happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” Greg says again. “I lost someone too.”

  “I know. A son.”

  “How did you-“

  “Don’t ask,” says Mycroft, and his voice is suddenly weary. There’s a brief, awkward silence, and then he speaks again. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem remarkably composed.” There’s a different inflection to his voice now, and Greg could swear that it’s envy. He’s about to invent some fancy excuse when he realises there’s no point, that the younger man could see right through him, and he sighs.

  “I don’t do my grieving in public. I don’t like people asking questions. Not many of them know I have- I _had_ a son.” He looks at the ground, ashamed of having made that mistake in front of an officer he barely knows.

  “You had a marriage too.” Greg’s head snaps up sharply.

  “How is that your business?”

  “I’m simply stating a fact.”

  “Well, _don’t._ I’m your commanding officer, Holmes, don’t think I won’t make things unpleasant for you because I can and I will.”

  “I wasn’t intending to offend you."

  "Then what were you doing?"

   "If you’d let me finish... I can tell your wife thought you were to blame for the death of your son, Flight Lieutenant. I can also tell that you weren't, no matter what she led you to believe.” _Trust me,_ Mycroft wants to say. _I know what it is to be responsible for the death of someone you care about._ But he holds his tongue, watching Lestrade carefully in the hope he isn’t going to go apoplectic. Greg takes a deep breath in, as though gathering up energy to start screaming at the junior officer, but at the last instance all the fight goes out of him.

  “Thank you.” Mycroft nods and opens his mouth to speak, and is nearly hit in the face by the church door as it opens for the soldiers to start filing out. He waits in the shadows behind the door and joins the last line, looking back at Greg with gratitude on his face. When Mycroft looks away, Greg shakes his head. He isn’t entirely sure what the hell just happened, but he’s pretty sure that Mycroft Holmes – _Mycroft Holmes,_ who as far as Greg was concerned, had the emotional capacity of the Grinch – just tried to comfort him about his dead son and his failed marriage. And oddly enough, Lestrade is fine with that. Maybe Holmes isn’t that awful after all.

  “Anyone skipping out, Lestrade?” Asks the Squadron Leader, a burly man who for all intents and purposes resembles a vegetable stand, with his carrot-coloured hair and beetroot-coloured face.

  “Not this year, sir,” he replies, not quite trusting himself to meet the man’s eyes.

  “Very well. Fall out and join the parade, you know the drill.”

  As the sound of highly-polished shoes rings on the cobblestones, the figure who had been leaning against a tree in the far corner of the graveyard for the past half hour straightens up. He tucks the dog tag he had been holding back into his pocket, and is rewarded with the nagging reminder that he should really get round to destroying it, because anything with his identity on it is dangerous now. Careful not to leave footprints in the frost, he walks along the edge of the graveyard towards the gate at the end. But as he steps past one of the last H rows, his curiosity gets the better of him and he turns towards it. Leaves coat the ground here, so he can use them to mask his footprints. About halfway along the row is where he sees it.

  His gravestone.

  A poppy wreath lies at the foot of it, propped up underneath the inscription. Just in front of it is a patch of grass, cleared of its leaves, where Mycroft has been kneeling. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, the same he felt when he watched the older man sobbing quietly for a brother he thought to be dead. He shakes his head to clear it. There isn’t any point in dwelling on Mycroft now. He shouldn’t even be here. It’s far too risky. With one final glance back, the young man turns to leave, drawing his coat tighter around him. Coldness closes in on him, intensifying the pain in his chest, and he begins to wish he never came. The sooner he leaves the better, he decides, and he begins to hurry towards the far corner.

  Poppies grow in flowerbeds just before the line of trees, and after a moment of deliberation, the man reaches down and picks one. He pushes it through the buttonhole of his coat, not quite sure who he’s mourning. As he turns out of the gate and down the narrow pavement, he smiles briefly. Mycroft’s managed to get one thing right. Though he would have liked the inscription on his headstone to be something like “more intelligent than most people in this village, even in death”, he supposed Mycroft’s choice was rather apt. Lengthy, perhaps, but apt nonetheless.

  “Sherlock Holmes – once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's me again. Just if you aren't familiar with military terminology, falling out is basically being dismissed by a senior officer. Sorry to be patronising if you guys knew that already.


End file.
